


The Point of No Return

by funnylookinfella



Category: Wonder Woman (2017), Wonder Woman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Femslash, Phantom of the Opera AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 06:07:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11247888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/funnylookinfella/pseuds/funnylookinfella
Summary: Pitiful creature of darknesswhat kind of life have you known?God give me courage to show youyou are not alone.Diana Prince is ballet mistress at the Opera Themyscira, owned and operated by her mother and aunt, both legends in the theatre community. As they work hard to prepare a new production, they are haunted by a sinister woman in a mask, whom Diana finds herself fascinated by rather than frightened of. She wanders into the dark world far beneath the theatre, and the two women form a strange intimacy.





	The Point of No Return

“If you want to be able to truly accomplish every high kick in the choreography,” Diana said, walking down the line of ballerinas holding onto the barre, “you’re going to have to come to every rehearsal. Your body is an instrument that goes out of tune if you do not use it. Again, girls.”

The row of dancers, all looking varying degrees of intimidated, depending on when they’d arrived at the Opera Themyscira, kept hold of the ballet barre with one hand while stretching the other over their heads to accompany the high kick Diana was instructing them on.

“Remember,” she added, “you will have to accomplish this onstage. Without the barre to assist you.” Proving her point, she tipped herself up to stand on pointe and demonstrated the completed kick, sweeping her leg up in the air with a fierce grace. Some of the newer ballerinas stared.

“You’re frightening them,” came a voice from the doorway, and Diana let her feet rest flat as her mother entered, her aunt Antiope not far behind. “You forget, you were new once.”

“I do not forget,” Diana said with only mild annoyance. “I simply am not treating them like children. I will not act as if my dancers know nothing. They are well-taught enough to succeed in their auditions, after all.”

“She is right,” Antiope told Hippolyta. “It is how I taught her as well. Children do not learn from being coddled. I am confident her ballerinas will be more than prepared for the performance.”

“The performance that is only a week from now?” Hippolyta looked over at the self-doubting dancers, one of whom attempted the kick with a rather ungraceful jerk of the leg. Turning red, she whipped around to face the three women and gave a quick little bow of apology. Diana smiled kindly at her, ever the amiable instructor, despite her strictness.

“Do not worry. Do it again. I know that you can. This time move your foot, not your thigh.”

The petite girl nodded and let her hand rest once more on the barre. Diana watched as she executed the kick once more, this time succeeding. The girl gave her a broad smile, and it warmed Diana’s heart to see her instruction taken so well.

“You teach them well,” Antiope noted. “I have faith they will be ready. And our _primo uomo_ is ready to sing, although I am still not quite sure why your mother has given a Scotsman the lead in our production...”

“Charles has a good voice,” Hippolyta said. “An incredible talent. He will do well with Etta as our lead. Come, Diana. They are rehearsing now.”

Nodding, Diana turned back to her girls. “Have a drink of water, ladies, and stretch. Some of you look as if you need it. Remember, stretching before any dancing, rehearsal or no, is a requirement.” She beamed at them despite her stern words, and the dancers all nodded, some of them already sitting on the floor to stretch. Diana pulled her jacket back on and buttoned it, following her mother and aunt from the ballet studio to the back of the main stage. Behind the backdrop curtain, she could see the silhouettes of Charlie and Sameer standing center-stage, Charlie’s strong voice vibrating off the theatre walls. Hippolyta walked them stage right, and they descended the steps to stand in the orchestra pit.

Diana couldn’t deny it; Charlie was talented. Despite her mother’s insistence on calling him by his proper name, nothing about him was proper. At least, not when he was offstage. While he was singing, something seemed to overtake him, and he turned powerful, respectable. Sameer was looking at him with a mix of reverence and jealousy.

“Are you certain this is the best role for him?” Diana asked. “The role of a noble king? Perhaps he would make a better Don Giovanni...”

“You know very well Sameer is in line to play Don Giovanni next season, should he do well in this one,” Hippolyta told her. “Charles can adapt to any character, any situation...”

The lights crackled and flickered, and suddenly a big lighting beam from the ceiling came loose. Diana barely thought; the second she heard the crack of wood she pushed herself up over the edge of the pit and sprinted to push Charlie and Sameer out of the way, just as the beam crashed to the stage floor, several lights coming down with it. She realized, glancing behind her, that Antiope had immediately moved to help them, too, although Diana had gotten there faster, her jacket ripping at the underarm seam with the ferocity of her jump. 

“I’ve had just about enough of this!” Charlie snapped, pushing Diana off of him and straightening up. “Can we not have one day, one bloody day without something trying to fall on my head and crush it? That’s it, lads. I quit.”

“Charlie, be reasonable⏤”

“I’ll be reasonable when the theatre stops fallin’ apart, Sammy!” Charlie shouted as Sameer tried to put a hand on his shoulder. “You lot can find a new lead for this sodding show.” He threw off the bejeweled costume robe and elaborate headdress, the latter losing a glass jewel as he slammed it to the floor, and stormed off backstage.

“Were the lighting fixtures not secured?” Hippolyta turned to ask Antiope.

“I checked them myself,” Antiope said. “They were perfectly sturdy when I did. That was no more than three hours ago.”

“It did not fall of its own accord! Now we have lost our _primo uomo_ and must find another. Who will learn the libretto in a week’s time?”

“Mother,” Diana interrupted. “Sameer knows the libretto by heart. Let him play the noble king, and persuade Charlie to return for _Don Giovanni_ next season. It seems the most logical solution. Sameer is our swing player, is he not?”

“Diana, we already have a difficult time selling seats. No one will come if we have an unknown as our lead. We will go from filling half the theatre to filling a quarter of it. Need I remind you of our difficulties?”

“Sameer is more than capable!”

Sameer was standing with raised eyebrows, as if he couldn’t believe his luck. Both Hippolyta and Antiope were looking him over, scrutinizing. Finally, Hippolyta pointed at the discarded robe on the floor. “Well, go on, then. Try it on.”

As if the robe was guarded by a snake determined to bite him, Sameer snatched it up off the floor and somewhat awkwardly draped it around his shoulders. Diana kneeled and picked up the crown, smiling as she placed it on his head.

“Does he not look positively regal?”

Hippolyta could not deny the way the royal scarlet velvet compared to Sameer’s golden-brown skin, and so she nodded. “But let us hear him sing.”

“He can sing,” Diana assured them. “But if you must have proof, I am sure he will sing the aria from the beginning of act two.” She looked up at the ceiling beams. “And I will go and see what is amiss up there.”

“Be careful, Diana,” Antiope warned her, although Diana was already turned to leave, her jacket still ripped as she walked briskly off behind the blackout curtains.

She could hear Sameer begin to sing as she made her way to the ladder that led up to the lighting fixtures. Sighing at the inconvenience of her skirts, she glanced around to make sure no one was watching her before grabbing a handful of skirt and petticoat and stuffing them into the waist of her bloomers, giving her legs an opening to climb more easily.She ascended the ladder toward the rafters, reaching the top platform from which the stagehands lowered and raised the backdrops. The beam, she saw, had fallen from the stretch between the row of backdrop and curtain pulls and the first row of stage lights, and when she stepped closer, her head tilted as she saw the edge of the adjoining beam. The cross-section on which the fallen beam had been attached looked... well, burned. There was no other way to describe it. The wood was charred straight through, almost appearing dissolved, like the edge of a burned piece of paper. Diana frowned. None of them had smelled smoke, or seen it, for that matter, and it would have taken a long enough time to burn all the way through the wood to ensure that they would have noticed one way or the other. Carefully, Diana stepped up onto the adjoining beam and walked across it, kneeling with great care and lowering her face to the burned wood to smell it. Absolutely no discernible scent. If not for its appearance, she would say it hadn’t been burned at all.

With a slight shake of her head, she straightened and turned to walk back across the beam, but when she did, there was someone there staring at her.

It was a woman, dressed in dark cloth, from the cape that framed her shoulders to the hat nestled on top of her head. Her hands were gloved, and one of them held something that glimmered in the light that streamed from above. But the most peculiar thing about her was her face. The entire lower corner of it was hidden by an elaborate porcelain mask, separated into plates that presumably helped her to speak and eat. It smoothed down her cheekbone and over her nose, half of her mouth composed of pink, doll-like painted lips and the other half pulled down into a nasty scowl.

Diana’s brow furrowed. “Who... what are you doing here? You don’t belong up here.”

“Neither do you,” the woman said. Her voice was strange, scratchy and hoarse, as if she was constantly struggling to breathe. As soon as Diana made to move toward her, the woman immediately turned and ran, her cape sweeping behind her.

Diana broke into a run, forgetting she stood on a thin beam, and slipped, falling with a shriek before catching herself on the beam and hanging.

“Diana!” came Antiope’s voice from below her. “I told you to be careful! Wait, I am coming!”

Diana looked down at the distance between her and the floor, closing her eyes. She started pulling herself up, but the beam cracked under her hands, and in a terrifying blur she was falling, falling, until she crashed into something warm and much softer than the wooden floor. Dazed, she heard Sameer groan beneath her, and quickly got off of him.

“Are you hurt?” she asked breathlessly.

“No.” Sameer shook his head, rubbing at his temple. “Are you?”

“No.” She leaned over and embraced him. “Thank you, thank you.”

“What happened?” Hippolyta asked, hurrying up to them as Antiope returned from backstage. Diana felt a tug at her skirt and was about to protest until she realized Sameer was pulling her skirt and petticoat from her bloomers for her before anyone else saw the state of them. She vowed to thank him with dinner.

“I... there was...” Diana looked back up at the ceiling, at the stagehands’ platform and the lighting beams. There was no sign of the woman. “Someone broke the beam on purpose. Burned it, or... something.”

“We would have smelled the fire,” Antiope said.

“I know. I do not think it was fire. Some sort of... some sort of liquid, it seemed like. Something poured over the wood to burn and rot it. An acid.” She shook her head. “And there was a woman.”

“That cannot be.” Hippolyta shook her head dismissively. “Unless it was one of your dancers, there is no one in the building but us and them.”

“It was not one of my ballerinas. I know them all as if they were my own daughters. This woman was older than me, dressed all in black, with a hat, and a cape, and...” She let her hand rest against the corner of her face, fingers brushing her lips. “...And a mask. A mask that covered this part of her face, here, and nothing else.”

“Perhaps you’ve seen a ghost,” Sameer said.

“This is not the time for jokes,” Hippolyta snapped. “Diana, come with me. Antiope, hear him finish the aria.” Diana didn’t enjoy being told what to do, even by her mother, but she rose from the ground and followed her, head starting to pound.

* * *

 

Hippolyta’s study was perhaps the most interesting room in the building, even more so than the theatre itself. It was outfitted, of course, with the standard fare of ornate desks and bookshelves, but also with the treasures and gifts her mother had collected in her years of travel. Before the new ballerinas, there was Diana, and before Diana, there was Hippolyta, the world’s strongest and most formidable dancer. She could do things no man could do with his body, lift other dancers as if they were feathers, make jumps and kicks and spins like they were more natural than walking. And this allowed her to travel all over the world for performances, receive gifts from men and women alike, before joining her sister at home to found the Opera Themyscira and raise Diana.

On the shelves lining the room were wooden busts draped with jewelry, ceremonial daggers and instruments, a framed picture made from the hair of an English duchess, a kapala skull bowl studded and carved. This skull was Diana’s favorite, a treasure from Tibet made of real human bone, and mounted with cold metal eyes that shone with ruby pupils. When she was younger, it fascinated and frightened her, a morbid curiosity, desperate to know what would compel someone to turn a human skull into such a work of art.

But she had no interest in any of these things now. Hippolyta sat behind her desk as Diana took the seat in front of it, shrugging off her torn jacket. “I should return to my girls soon,” she said, examining the rip and deciding whether or not it was worth fixing. “I do not want them to lose focus.”

“Your girls can wait. There is something you must know.”

Diana looked up at her. “I did not think you kept secrets from me.”

“I never have.” Hippolyta opened a drawer and took out a key, quaint and rusted. On the shelf behind her was a box, which she took in both hands and set down on the desk. It wasn’t as ornate as the rest of the things in her mother’s office, in fact, it was quite plain, scarcely any bigger than a cigar box and just about as attractive. Hippolyta opened the lock and set the key down, opening the box’s lid with a creak of its hinge.

Inside were papers, many of them folded. Newspaper clippings, old and yellowed. She turned the box to face Diana and gently pushed it across the desk’s surface toward her. Diana took one of the papers in her hands, unfolding it as delicately as she could manage, given its age.

“ _Opera Ghost Terrorizes Again_ ,” she read. Looking up at Hippolyta, she frowned. “Opera ghost? How did I never know of this?”

Her mother almost looked ashamed. “It all began when you were only ten years old. I did not want to worry you with such things, such frightening stories. At the time, we thought it was only someone attempting to frighten some money from us, or perhaps merely to amuse themselves. We soon found out it was much more sinister.

“It started much as it did today. Lights falling, costumes missing, sets painted over. It seemed like anything this tormentor disliked about our production, she changed, through sheer defacing of them. She was controlling our every performance without even showing her face.”

“She?”

“She.” Hippolyta nodded. “Antiope had the clever idea of brushing the floors backstage with cake flour, so that we may see the intruder’s footprints, where they came from, where they went while we were all asleep at night. They had brushed away most of the flour, but we did manage to see one footprint, the print of a woman’s shoe.

“It only grew stranger. We never saw her face, but she began leaving us handwritten notes, calling herself the Opera Ghost. Signing letters _O.G._ , staying out of sight. She began demanding that we keep Box 5 open for her at every performance, but we never saw her there. If she does truly use it, she comes after the show has started and leaves before the final curtain. She also began demanding a sum of money each month in exchange for peaceful productions. The money was not substantial, so we agreed, leaving the envelope of francs on the seat in Box 5 once every month. And since then, she has not bothered us. But the envelope always does vanish, so we know she is still here.”

“But where?” Diana asked. “Where could she possibly be hiding? We know this building, we know all its secrets.”

“No one truly knows every secret of a place,” Hippolyta said grimly.

“But Mother,” Diana said with a deep breath, trying to remain calm and reasonable. “This is madness. Why are you accepting these threats? Allowing her to attend our performances for free while taking from us? Do things like...” She made a gesture in the general direction of the theatre. “Like drop ceiling beams on our actors just because she does not like them? I did not think you so complacent, Mother.”

“I am not complacent.” Diana seemed to have struck a nerve. “Cooperation and complacency are not the same. You see, she does give back.”

“In what way?”

“Since we began meeting her terms, she has begun giving us... well, a more acceptable form of criticism. Whomever she is, she is very knowledgable of music. She often leaves me detailed notes on our rehearsals, and most of her advice has been very helpful at bettering our performances. To put it more crudely, she is convenient.”

Diana fell silent, shaking her head. “You may find her convenient, but I do not think nearly killing Charlie and Sameer is a good demonstration of her helpfulness. I will find her.”

“And what will you do, Diana?”

“I will make her regret threatening us. I will be sure she knows we do not need her help if this is what comes with it.” She stood, jacket clutched in her fist. “You cannot stop me, Mother. I am going to find where she’s hiding, and I am going to end the stocks she has us in.”

Hippolyta pressed her lips together, but nodded, closing the box after she’d tucked the newspaper clipping back into it. “Do what you must,” she said, “but be sure she knows this is your vendetta. Not mine. Because she will not respond kindly to it.”

“I don’t respond kindly to blackmail,” Diana replied, leaving and shutting the door behind her.

* * *

 

This proved to be a harder task than Diana had anticipated. Not because she lacked the skill, but because she lacked the time; her dancers were her first and most important priority, and she would not shorted or skip rehearsals to search for some mysterious opera ghost. She watched them get better and better with each passing day, rehearsing for long hours and dancing alongside them until they were confident.

Sameer seemed to be growing into his role quite perfectly, although Diana didn’t allow herself to think that the Opera Ghost may have been right about chasing Charlie away. He’d been a good singer, but lacked the regality that Sameer could bring to the role. She wouldn’t entertain any sort of agreement, but if that truly had been the ghost’s plan, she could at least begin to understand why her mother kept it around.

The next week crawled by, torturously, the cast and crew working harder and harder and getting less and less sleep. Even Diana’s beautiful mother was beginning to look a bit worn out by the day before opening night, where she, Diana, Antiope, and several other female members of the cast and crew all sat around their dinner table trying to relax and failing miserably.

“Are you certain your dancers are ready?” Antiope asked Diana.

“More ready than I thought they could ever be.”

“And we’ve repaired the lights?” Hippolyta asked Antiope.

“Yes. I replaced the beams myself.”

“Perfect,” Hippolyta said. “Perfect.” And everything was perfect. The anxiety that ran rampant through the theatre’s occupants wasn’t new; it was constantly present the night before a new show, and Diana expected it would for a long time to come. As they settled down to eat at last, the door to the dining room opened and Menalippe rushed in.

“Antiope!” She hurried over to her, an envelope clutched in her hand. “This came for you.”

“At this hour?” Antiope took the envelope with some hesitation. “Who would deliver a letter so late in the evening?”

“I do not know. But when I went into your rooms to return the red paint we used on the backdrop, it was laying on your pillow.”

Antiope turned the letter in her hands. It was sealed with a deep, emerald green wax, though the stamp didn’t seem to have any unique characteristics, a simple floral design anyone could get from a shop. Antiope opened the envelope, perhaps less carefully than Hippolyta would have, and unfolded the letter.

“To the stage manager of the Opera Themyscira,” she read aloud. “I am aware of how much you value my advice, and as I observed your assistant repainting the sunset backdrop, I found the new coloring garish. The audience cannot engross themselves with such unrealistic set design. You will repaint it again to better represent the natural colors of the sunset. If you do not do so by opening night tomorrow, I will be sure to do the job for you.” She looked up at Hippolyta and Diana.

“I’m not entirely sure whether that’s an offer or a threat,” Hippolyta said thoughtfully.

“Judging by past behaviors, I think I would lean towards threat,” Diana said.

“There is no time to repaint the backdrop again!” Menalippe hissed, as if the ghost was listening as they spoke. Which, Diana mused, she could be, for all they knew. “The show is tomorrow night! This... this ghost wants me to repaint the entire sunset backdrop in less than twenty-four hours? Even if I could, the paint would not be dry!”

“Do not do it.”

Antiope and Diana both looked at Hippolyta, Antiope with mild surprise and Diana with admiration. Menalippe frowned.

“You heard what the ghost says. Do it, or she will do it herself.”

“Then let her do it,” Hippolyta said. “If she so badly wants the backdrop to have different colors, she can specify them with her own hand.” She looked over at Diana. “You are right. We must not negotiate with this type of blackmail. We must stand our ground.”

Diana beamed.

Menalippe looked slightly nervous, but she was defiant enough to brush it aside. “Then I will not,” she said decisively. “And the show will go on as planned.”

* * *

 

Diana’s heart swelled with pride as she watched her ballerinas from backstage. As Sameer stood on the apron, singing for a captivated audience, the girls twirled and kicked behind him, every motion perfect, just as they rehearsed, but with no lost passion. There was a part of her that missed dancing onstage, but when she watched these beautiful dancers take what she taught them and use it to fulfill their passions, it was better than any sort of applause.

At intermission, they all fluttered backstage, some of them stopping to embrace Diana, or get a kiss on the cheek from her, and she was beginning to feel like the mother of a litter of kittens. So far, she thought, as the girls ran off to change for the second act, so good. No sign of any interruptions, supernatural or otherwise, and the show was halfway done. But, she reminded herself, the sunset backdrop wasn’t used until the second scene of act two. That would be the moment of truth. But what could this supposed ‘ghost’ do to a set piece in the middle of a performance?

By the time the scene arrived, Diana wished she had never asked herself that question.

Sameer, in the middle of a bright, playful duet with Etta, stopped singing abruptly. Etta shrieked. The (admittedly scarce) audience jumped from their seats, some of them starting to run for the exits. Smoke billowed out over the house. The top of the backdrop was ablaze, the bright orange and red paint searing off as flames licked along the canvas and spread downward. Diana’s eyes widened as she looked up at it, immediately grabbing a few of her girls and pulling them away from the curtains.

“Back in the studio!” she shouted. “All of you! Now!” The dancers followed her instructions and scurried away, a few of them crying as the flame grew bigger, wider, heavier. Diana coughed, covering her mouth with the back of her arm as she darted forward. Immediately, she went for the ladder, starting to climb up it when a hand grabbed the back of her skirt and pulled her down again. Her head hit the floor hard and she fell unconscious.

* * *

 

When she woke, the first thing she saw was candles.

More than she’d ever seen in her life, all flickering and glowing in the blue-black darkness of the room. If it was even a room she was in. At the very least, she seemed to be laying in a bed, though not the most comfortable one. But what use did a ghost have for a bed?

The ghost.

Diana jerked upright, already starting to get out of bed, when a hand grabbed her upper arm and gently pushed her back down. Diana batted the hand away, but didn’t try to get up again, suddenly aware of a sharp pain in her head. She reached up to touch it, her hand coming away with a streak of blood.

“You fell,” came the hoarse voice.

“You pulled me,” Diana shot back.

“I didn’t mean to.” The ghost wandered around the bed, into Diana’s view. She still wore the dark clothes, gloves, and hat that Diana had first seen her in, as well as the mask, although Diana was having a difficult time seeing that from the angle she was in. As her eyes adjusted, she realized the chamber she was in was quite large, cavernous, as if she’d been dragged into a cave by a hungry bear. The candles stood on every surface, some of them with only their old wax to keep them upright, and, most strange of all, the entire cavern seemed to be clutched around a lake of glassy water. There was a lake, Diana knew, near the theatre, but as far as she knew it didn’t run beneath it. So where was she?

“If you didn’t mean to pull me,” she said, pressing her palm flat against the cut in her head, “what were you doing?”

“Getting you away. From the fire.” The ghost took several strides that resonated off the vast walls, over to the rest of her living conditions, which consisted of the bed Diana was currently seated on, a rickety desk, a surprisingly large, chipped piano, and a small shelf pushed up against the cavern wall. The desk, Diana noted, was covered in not only papers, but little bottles, vials, and test tubes in metal racks, all filled with liquid. She realized that the tiny, glimmering object the ghost had been holding when they’d first met must have been a vial.

“The fire that you started,” Diana said.

“I gave them a warning.” The woman’s raspy voice sounded accusatory, as if it was their fault. “I think the new backdrop was exactly the color of the natural sunset, don’t you?”

Diana stared. She was terrifying, this woman, and Diana was no coward. The ghost spoke of her crimes with an almost lighthearted air, her masked face smirking. Standing from the bed, Diana looked around for an exit, not seeing one but starting to move anyway, running along the cavern wall and running her hands over the rock, searching for some way to escape. The woman didn’t chase after her, instead sitting at the old piano and removing her hat.

“You’re wasting your time, Diana. You won’t find an escape.”

“So you are keeping me prisoner!” Diana rounded on her in a fear-fueled rage. “What right have you to keep me here? And for what purpose? You say you were trying to save me from the smoke, but what is the point of rescuing me if all I will ever do is stay here as your plaything.”

“Not my plaything! Never my plaything!” the woman shouted hoarsely. “I wish only to speak with you. And I knew you would never consent to speak with me of your own accord.”

“I wonder why. Could it be because you tried to murder our _primo uomo_ and set fire to our stage?”

“I was trying to save your pitiful production,” the woman snapped. “You and your family do not have the slightest idea how to stage a professional performance. Getting rid of that horrible Scotsman was the first of many decisions I could make in your favor.”

Diana opened her mouth to retort, but remembered what her mother had pointed out about the theatre’s attendance. “How are we to know that your decisions will gather a bigger audience than our own?”

“You saw your man Sameer in the lead role, did you not?” The woman turned to look over her shoulder, mask still shadowing half of her face. “Was that not a good decision on my part? You seemed to agree when it was happening...”

Diana felt an involuntary shudder travel up her spine. How long had they been watched? Where was this woman spying on them from? She shook off her fear, telling herself she had no time for it, and walked over to the piano. “Could we possibly make a deal? An agreement?”

The woman, whose hands had been hovering over the piano’s keys as if she had been about to start playing, stopped, letting her gloved fingers rest in her lap instead. “What sort of agreement?”

“First of all, you set me free from this place,” Diana said. “Secondly, you stop destroying our belongings. Instead, you simply give us your critique and we adjust accordingly. Would that sate you?”

“So long as you continue leaving Box 5 empty for my use. And pay my salary.”

“That I cannot agree to. You will no longer threaten money from us.”

“I am not threatening,” the woman said. “I am being paid for the job of critic. Paid for my generous wisdom. I’m certain that’s worth a humble amount of money on a monthly basis, is it not?”

Diana pursed her lips, trying to think of something that would deem the woman’s conditions unreasonable. She found none. “Very well. But I have one more thing to ask of you before we seal this agreement.”

“And what, pray tell, is that?”

“I wish to know your name.”

The woman seemed taken aback, as if shocked that Diana would want to know anything about her at all. As she waited for a response, Diana drummed her fingers on the piano’s wooden back. Eventually, the ghost spoke.

“Isabel.”

Diana couldn’t help but smile. Such an ordinary name for someone so strange. She gave a little nod and wandered back over to the bed, sitting down on it. “Now, show me the way out of here, and I will return in person on a monthly basis to give you your payment and take your critiques.”

“Why would I trust you, to know how to enter and leave this place without alerting your mother and aunt to its location and smoking me out, so to speak?”

“Because we’re making a deal, Isabel,” Diana said. “And a deal is a promise. And a promise is unbreakable.”

Isabel considered her before standing from the piano, taking her hat and putting it back on over her neatly combed hair. For a moment, she almost looked human. But the mask betrayed her. Diana found herself longing, positively itching to know what was behind it, but she knew that she had to earn this woman’s trust before that moment could come. And she certainly didn’t have it yet.

“Then it is a promise,” Isabel said.

She led Diana onto a boat that traveled across the glimmering lake, the stone walls turning to brick, the brick of the opera house. When they both stepped off the boat and onto the small wooden dock, Diana saw a set of stairs that wound up the big stone wall.

“Where do they lead?” she asked.

“You will see.” Isabel lifted herself up on the second step and offered her hand. Diana did not take it, instead climbing the stairs independently after her.

They seemed to wind on forever, around the inward curve that Diana knew was one of the building’s big stone columns. Enclosed in one column was her mother’s office and bedroom; in of the other were Diana and Antiope’s rooms, Diana’s at the very top. The passageway the stairs went through became narrower, until Diana realized they were inside the walls of the stout tower itself. When the stairs ended, they stepped off onto a slim hallway, if it could even be called that. Crescent-shaped, one side still the curve of the column and the other the underbelly of whatever wall was on the other side. Near the middle of this space was a large, flat panel of clear glass, framed with wood and with hinges on one side, allowing it to open inward.

When Diana followed Isabel to the hallway’s window, she realized with horror it was the other side of her bedroom mirror.

“You watch me!” she cried, whipping around to face Isabel. “You watch me in private. Watch me undress, sleep...”

“I do not,” Isabel told her. “All I do is look to see when you are not in your bedroom, so that I may use it to access the rest of the building. When I see you inside, I look away.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I promise.” Isabel turned Diana’s word back on her, holding her gaze with intense eyes. Diana searched her face, considering herself good at detecting lies when she saw them, but saw no hint of deceit. She vowed to put a piece of cloth over the mirror, anyway.

“...Return to your dark lair,” she said, somewhat bitterly. “My mother will be wondering where I am. No doubt she thinks I am unconscious from the smoke somewhere.”

“When will I see you again?”

The question was worded in such a way that Diana was taken aback. Not when she would get her money, not when she would be allowed to criticize, but when she would see Diana’s face again, speak with her, be in her presence. It almost made her smile.

“I will explain our agreement to my mother,” she said. “And return to you in a week’s time. I assume the mirror door is not locked.”

“It is equipped with a lock,” Isabel said, “but I will leave it open for you.” She slid the lock open and pulled the mirror back, opening it to the darkness of her bedroom. It must have been nightfall already, though Diana had no way of knowing how long she’d been in Isabel’s clutches. She considered asking, but knew that she would find out as soon as she found Hippolyta and Antiope. Instead, she turned to Isabel.

“I am glad we reached a compromise.”

“As am I.” Isabel inclined her head. “I will wait for you in a week’s time. Until then, you will cease production of this show, and prepare for _Don Giovanni_. As long as you cast Sameer in the leading role once again.”

“I told my mother we would bring Charlie back for that role.”

“Tell her otherwise.” Isabel opened the door further, clearly telling Diana to leave. “Sameer is now your new _primo uomo_. That is my first piece of advice for you. I suggest you take it.”

* * *

 

Diana hurried down the stairs to find her mother, darting across the empty lobby as a shortcut. She was still in her dancing flats, which made it much easier to run, even as her skirts flew behind her. She heard voices coming from her mother’s study and tore open the door, finding Hippolyta, Antiope, and Menalippe standing around the desk, looking at her like they’d seen a ghost. Oh, if only they knew.

“Diana!” Hippolyta rushed around the other two women and threw her arms around her daughter, pulling her close. “Where have you been? We were beginning to think you’d been killed in the fire.”

“Killed?” Diana pulled away enough to look at her mother in alarm. “Were others killed?”

“Two of your dancers were burned enough to seek medical attention,” Antiope said, “but no one was killed.”

“What?” Diana felt rage boil inside her, but Menalippe interrupted it.

“Etta has been coughing for hours, however, and we worry about her voice,” she told her. “We may have to find another soprano for the part.”

“There will be no need,” Diana said, her anger waning as she remembered the deal that would keep any more destruction from happening. “We are to stop this production at once.”

“What do you mean?” Hippolyta stared. “It’s only a matter of painting a new backdrop. The floor was not charred, the seats not burned. There is no reason to cease the entire production.”

“Yes, there is, Mother.” Diana looked around at her family. “I was not lost, I was not hurt. I was rescued from the fire by the Opera Ghost.”

“Rescued?” Antiope scoffed. “You know, and so do we, that you are not the sort of woman who needs rescued.”

“No, but I was about to climb the ladder, closer to the fire, to attempt to catch the culprit.” Diana turned to face Antiope, slipping from her mother’s arms. “But the culprit clearly did not want me harmed. She took me, took me to her home where the air was breathable, gave me a bed to lay on.”

“Her home?” Menalippe frowned. “Where is her home?”

Diana shook her head. “I cannot tell you.”

“You must tell us!” Hippolyta exclaimed. “How else are we to catch this... this madwoman? She cannot be allowed to terrorize us any longer! Diana, tell us where we will find her. There is no reason for you to keep her secrets!”

“But there is.” Diana took a deep breath. “I have tendered an agreement with the ghost. One that will prevent any further destruction from happening. An agreement that will benefit us as well.”

“I cannot wait to hear this,” Antiope said flatly.

“She knows of our struggles to sell tickets, to fill seats,” Diana said. “She has said she will help us, offer us advice, and if we take it, she will peacefully continue to do so. To help us.”

“Why would she want to assist us?” Hippolyta demanded. “She has no reason!”

This, Diana realized, she didn’t know. She opened her mouth to speak but closed it soon after, shaking her head. “I don’t know. But I do know that she will keep her word. I can only ask that you trust me.”

“I do trust you,” Hippolyta said. “It is her I do not trust.”

“Trust that I know she speaks the truth,” Diana said. “If we allow her to instruct us, we will fill seats. We will sell out, I know it. Look at what she’s done for Sameer. No one has ever played the king’s role better. And Sameer will make a wonderful Don Giovanni.”

“Don Giovanni?” Menalippe was looking at Diana as if she were speaking another language. “Charlie is to play Don Giovanni. Next season.”

“No.” Diana shook her head. “The Opera Ghost has told me that Sameer is to play the lead in _Don Giovanni_. And I am inclined to agree with her. Charlie is unpredictable, impossible to direct. He speaks crudely, improvises inappropriately. Sameer will embrace the libretto and breath life into it. You know this is true.”

Hippolyta was silent. Antiope and Menalippe glanced at one another uneasily. Finally, Diana’s mother spoke.

“And what role are you to play in this ghost’s little game?”

Diana stood up a bit straighter. “I am the envoy, the messenger who will go between the opera and the ghost and deliver your messages and hers. As well as her salary.”

“It occurs to me, Diana, that not long ago you were incredibly averse to paying this salary.” Hippolyta raised her eyebrows. “Were you not?”

“I was,” Diana admitted. She thought of the spartan conditions Isabel was living in, far beneath the theatre. “But I now have information that changes my stance, Mother. Please. Let us do this, even if only for a while. I promise you, if we begin taking her advice, and the opera’s revenue does not increase, I will tell you where she is hidden and you may do with her as you please.”

This was what ultimately made Hippolyta agree to the arrangement. When Diana left the office to return to her bedroom, exhausted even after laying unconscious for so long, she took a cloak from her wardrobe and draped it over her mirror, afterwards undressing and tucking herself into her bed to sleep.

* * *

 

Weeks crawled by, and the production of _Don Giovanni_ began. At the end of each week, Diana crept through the opening in her bedroom and went across the lake to visit Isabel, to hear her notes, to speak with her. It started with an almost professional air, but grew more and more intimate the more they visited. Diana no longer felt like a prisoner to their agreement, but a friend to Isabel, and more often than not she anticipated their visits with joy.

“Sameer is doing well in the role, but he needs to strengthen his upper range.”

Isabel sat at her desk, writing with a battered quill in a notebook Diana had given her specifically for her critiques. Diana idly paced the area, noting every piece of advice she was given even though Isabel was writing it down. The bed was now neatly made, as neatly as the battered blankets could possibly look, but the desk she was writing on was still cluttered with papers, some of them with writing and others with manically-scribbled bars of music. 

“Strengthen his upper range. Noted.” Diana nodded. “And the sets?”

“The country backdrop for scene three,” Isabel said. “It looks much too flat. There must be an illusion of distance, of depth. Tell your painter to increase the depth of field. The garden is beautiful, however. A place where garishly bright colors are welcome.”

“Also noted.”

“That is all I have for you this week.” Isabel returned her quill to the inkwell and blew on the page to help dry it.

“No notes for my dancers?”

“No. Traditionally, of course, _Don Giovanni_ only has one dance sequence, in the ballroom near the end. I find it... ingenious, the way you placed them throughout. The dancers acting as flowers in the garden, guests at the wedding. It makes the show much more lively. I have no critiques for you.”

“You haven’t had any for me since the rehearsals began,” Diana noted, sitting on the edge of the bed. “If I knew no better, I would say you’re being kind to me.”

“No. Only impressed by you.”

There was a moment of silence between them, though unlike their previous silences, this one wasn’t the least bit awkward. Diana turned to the satchel she’d brought with her. “I did bring you something.”

“You’ve brought me something?” Isabel nearly laughed. “Take care, Diana. You are beginning to act as if we are friends.”

“A small something. A loaf of bread.” She took the golden loaf from the bag and held it out for Isabel. “I don’t imagine you can eat very well from the shadows.”

Isabel stared at the bread in suspicion. Diana wasn’t sure whether she thought the bread was poisoned somehow, or if she just couldn’t believe Diana was doing something nice for her. Eventually, she reached a hand out and took the bread, tearing a piece off and delicately opening her mouth to take a bite without disturbing her mask.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to eat without... that, on your face?” Diana asked.

Isabel shook her head, shooting Diana a glare. Falling silent and deciding it wasn’t worth getting on Isabel’s bad side, Diana closed her satchel and stood, taking the book with Isabel’s notes on it. The notebook had been new when Diana had given it to her, but it was already beginning to show wear, what with how Isabel tore pages from it and cracked its spine. It was an emerald green, with a celtic knot stamped in the leather cover. Diana tucked it into the pocket of her jacket.

“Well. If that’s all. I’ll show these notes to my mother and be back soon for more.” She politely inclined her head and turned to leave.

“You don’t want to see it.”

Diana turned. Isabel was staring down at the bread in her hands, her face shadowed.

“...See what?”

“My face.” She looked up at Diana, eyes pained underneath their pride. “I know you are curious. But please. Do not ask to see it again.”

Diana was quiet for a moment, holding Isabel’s gaze. To this point, Isabel had been guarded, reserved, only sharing her feelings when they had to do with the production. Now, Diana felt as if she was seeing into her soul. She was hurt under that ferocity.

“I won’t. I promise.”

“Remember,” Isabel said, calling after Diana as she left. “A promise is unbreakable.”

* * *

 

That night, Diana retired to her bedroom and changed into her dressing gown, switching back to her ballet flats so that she would make no sound while walking and tying her hair back into a braid. She waited until the stroke of midnight, by which she knew Isabel must be asleep, and carefully pushed open the mirror door, leaving it ajar so that it wouldn’t close audibly. Down the cold steps she went, slowly, delicately, flattening her foot with purpose on every step and breathing slowly and evenly. When she reached the bottom of the steps, the boat awaited her, and she rowed it across the lake as quietly as she could muster.

When she reached the opposite dock, she stepped off, resting the oar diagonally across the boat. Isabel was asleep in her bed, and the mask, in three pieces, was resting on a pile of sheet music over on top of the piano. Her face, Diana realized, was bare.

Edging closer, careful not to wake her, Diana walked around the bed. Isabel was laying on her side, the smooth, ordinary side of her face facing upward, the only part Diana could see. She stood by the side of the bed for a moment, cursing her luck, when Isabel rolled over in her sleep and Diana saw her face.

The entire left side of her mouth was scarred into what looked like a terrible, permanent grimace, her nose completely caved in on one side and her complexion mottled and pink. It looked as if she’d been burned, as if once that corner of her face had been dark and bleeding as she screamed in pain. Diana swore she could almost hear it.

She couldn’t help but inhale sharply, quickly enough that it was audible.

Isabel’s eyes snapped open. She let out a shriek, grabbing Diana’s wrist and shoving her back. If not only because she’d been caught by surprise, Diana fell to the ground, scrambling away as Isabel ripped the covers off of herself and rose from the bed, standing over her.

“A promise is unbreakable, you said. You swore to me you would never ask again. I did not think that meant you would neglect to ask at all!” She grabbed the oil lamp from the floor next to the bed and threw it against the wall, shattering it. “Is this what you wanted to see? That every week you visit a monster?”

Diana quickly crawled backward, but Isabel moved with her, throwing the papers off her desk and sending the inkwell to the floor, splattering Diana’s dressing gown with black. “Isabel. Please. I’m sorry.”

“You aren’t sorry! No one is ever sorry!” She kicked the piano bench over. “No one has ever been sorry for how they look at me, how they stare, how they tremble, how they scream. No one! You are no different!”

“I am not afraid of you!” Diana stood, using the wall for support as she turned to face Isabel. “I am not afraid of anything!”

“Leave!” Isabel’s voice was growing more and more hoarse the more she shouted. “Our agreement is finished! Go back to your world above ground, go back to your pitiful productions. You’ll get no more help from me!”

“Isabel!”

“GO!” She picked up the piano stool and threw it at Diana. It missed her, and she thought Isabel likely didn’t intend to hit her at all. But she left anyway, looking at the boat and realizing if she took it, Isabel would be trapped. Instead, she took a deep breath and leaped into the water, feeling her body enveloped in cold, her dressing gown weighing her down until she kicked it off and swam in her underclothes. One last look back revealed Isabel watching her, a hand covering the scarred side of her face, painted with rage.

* * *

 

“Diana?”

Antiope opened the door to her niece’s bedroom and found her sitting on the floor, wrapped in her winter cloak and looking shaken. Immediately, Antiope kneeled on the floor next to her.

“What’s happened to you?”

“Antiope...” Diana gripped her aunt in a tight embrace. “Please, I must tell you something, but will you promise not to tell my mother?”

“You want me to keep secrets from my own sister?”

“Yes,” Diana said. “Please, Antiope, you must promise.”

Somewhat hesitant at first, Antiope eventually nodded, and pulled Diana to her feet to help her change from her soaking wet clothes. When the both of them were sitting on her bed, Diana began her tale. Antiope listened silently, her expression unreadable as she held Diana’s hands in her own. Diana felt humiliated, telling her all of this now, revealing that she allowed herself to be weakened by this horrible woman. And yet...

“You came to be fond of her,” Antiope said.

Diana felt caught between weeping and screaming in frustration. She looked away, her drenched hair falling over her shoulder. “At first I was fascinated by her. Then... I pitied her. Then I felt myself drawn to her. Visiting her every week, it became the thing I most anticipated. More than dancing, more than laughing with my family. More than anything, I wanted to walk down into her world.”

“And that is why you insist I not tell Hippolyta.”

“Yes,” Diana confirmed. “She would be furious. She would have her killed, taken by the police, taken to the madhouse, something so horrible. I cannot let her do that. I must help her.”

“And how do you propose you help her?”

Diana shook her head. “I don’t know how to help her without my mother knowing. I wish that I could share our home with her, let her live in the light. But I cannot.”

“It is difficult,” Antiope said, “to truly help someone who is in so much pain. At times, you must decide if you are willing to sacrifice for them.”

Sacrifice, Diana thought. That was it. A sacrifice. She stood from the bed and hurried over to her desk, sitting and starting to scrawl a letter.

“What is that?” Antiope asked.

“A deal.” Diana looked down at her untidy handwriting. When it was complete, she blew on it and folded it, going to slip it under the mirror. “A promise.”

* * *

 

The night of _Don Giovanni_ was upon them. Sameer paced backstage, dressed all in his silk breeches and scarlet waistcoat, and the dancers were adorned in their floral tutus, draped in daisies and roses. Diana walked among them, straightening garlands and headpieces and smiling as the girls confessed their nerves.

“Diana!” came a voice from behind her. She turned to see one of her youngest dancers rush over, skirt bouncing.

“Helena.” Diana smiled and embraced her, feeling the young girl tremble.

“I’m so terribly nervous.”

“You need not be.” Diana straightened her daisy garland, tucked a strand of blonde hair back into her bun. “You are one of the most talented girls in our company, this is the truth.”

Beaming, Helena let Diana press a kiss to her forehead before going to join the other dancers. Diana heard the orchestra tune their instruments and watched Sameer gather his courage to step back behind the curtains. The house lights went off, and the overture began.

Diana looked around for signs of Isabel the entire duration of the first act, and as it drew closer to intermission, she was beginning to wonder if she’d read the letter at all. Or if she’d even surfaced since Diana had left her that night. How long could a person survive on one loaf of bread? she wondered. At the very least, she had the water from the lake.

As the last scene of the first act commenced onstage, Diana gave the backstage one last sweep. Just as she was about to stop her search and go to meet her dancers before act two, she walked past the dressing rooms and realized the ladies’ door was closed.

Closed, although all of the ladies in the cast were out onstage.

Diana turned the knob, realizing the feeling she had in her chest was hope.

It was empty.

Sighing and berating herself for being so paranoid, she closed the door again and turned.

Isabel was standing right behind her.

Diana flinched in surprise, but recovered quickly, grabbing her by the arm and opening the dressing room door again to pull her inside. Isabel didn’t protest, allowing herself to be manhandled as Diana closed the door behind them. She stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, her mask back in place but her hair slightly disheveled.

“You came,” Diana observed.

“I did.”

“You read my letter to you.”

“Yes,” Isabel said. In her hand, Diana realized, she held a stack of paper held together with string. She could see bars of music, handwritten, time signatures and notes in a neatly looped hand. Sensing Diana’s curiosity, Isabel handed the stack to her. “This is a gift.” 

Diana untied the string, feeling the weight of the paper in her hands. The notes, she saw, were lyrics to a libretto, every page connected in an elaborate musical dialogue.

“An opera,” she said, her voice laced with wonder.

“An opera,” Isabel confirmed. “My last gift to the Opera Themyscira. And my last gift to you.”

“What do you mean, last gift?” Diana furrowed her brow in confusion. “You said that you read my letter. I told you to come if you wanted to take my offer. Why did you come?”

“To say goodbye.” Isabel avoided Diana’s gaze. “Your offer... touched me. But I cannot resign you to a life as miserable as mine.”

“I will not be joining your life,” Diana insisted. “And you will not be joining mine. We will blend them, seamlessly. Take the beauty and music from yours and the comfort and love of mine and create a new life. Together.”

“You desire to wake to a face like mine? Every morning for the rest of your life?” Isabel looked at Diana with sour, dejected eyes. “Diana. I... I have grown to care for you. Love you, even. But I refuse to doom you to this. I have spent my entire life alone. To spend the rest of it alone is not as devastating as you seem to think it is for me.”

“That’s a lie,” Diana said. “I see it on your face. You can wear that horrible mask, you can say you don’t care, but I know that you do. Why else would you open your arms to me every week, let me fall asleep in your bed, listen to your music?” She stepped closer, reaching a hand out and touching Isabel’s mask. Her fingernails made a light, almost melodic scratching noise as she brushed them across the porcelain. “Isabel, my love.” She took away the top plate of the mask. Isabel flinched, but didn’t move as Diana removed the plate over her nose. Finally, the plate along the line of her jaw was pulled away, and Diana was left looking at Isabel’s true, destroyed face. “I don’t know what kind of life you lived before coming here, to the Opera Themyscira, to live in the shadows beneath us.” She held the mask pieces in her hand, until finally, she raised her arm and threw them against the opposite wall.

Diana stared at the shards of porcelain shattered on the rug for a moment before returning her gaze to Isabel. Her eyes were wide, filled with tears, tears of shame. Diana took her face in both hands, touching her scars, stroking over them.

“You are not alone.”

She pulled Isabel close for a kiss.

* * *

 

“Diana!” Hippolyta ran into the dressing room, hearing the crash, the sound of something breaking. She saw the pieces of porcelain on the floor, kneeling and taking a shard in her hand. It looked like a piece of a doll’s face, a pink and polished lower lip. Raising her head and looking all around the room, she saw a stack of papers. Once she’d stood and walked over to the vanity closest to the door, she took the folded parchment from the top of the stack.

_Mother -_

_I do not expect you to understand why I must do what I have done. I suppose the first thing you must know is that the opera ghost is not a torturer, not a lunatic, but a wounded woman with a soft heart. A soft heart that I fell in love with, without realizing until it was too late. This opera is her last gift to us, a gift to redeem herself for the damage she’s caused. Believe me when I say that she is deserving of redemption._

_The most important thing you have ever shown me is love. That I was capable of so much love there were times it hardly seemed to fit inside me. And that I should share that love with others. That is what I am doing. I am taking Isabel to live a life she never has, a warm bed, hot food, a bath, a fireplace, a tuned piano._

_And someday, if I can heal her heart, we will return to you, if you could ever forgive me for this. But I know that it is you I got my kind heart from, that you are just as kind, and that every threat you ever made you made because you love your family. Your sisters, and your daughter._

_Know that I love you, and know that I am only doing what you taught me._

_With love, always,_

_Diana_

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, don't ask me what time period this takes place in, it's full of mismatched anachronisms and I'm more than aware. But thanks for reading!


End file.
